Shadow Kissed 03 - Shadowman

from the warehouse where the gate was created, near the river. An unholy stain marred a spot on the street where the devil had taken its first victim. The kill was not palpable to human senses. The spilled blood had been washed from the street and the smell of fear had dispersed into the wind. Yet the sense of evil remained. Passersby would shudder. Neither animal nor insect would draw near. But the devil was long gone.
    Khan cast his Shadow out again. And there , again, the creature had taken lives. The devil had headed south, into a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.
    This blot on the world, marked off by yellow tape, was situated near racks of clothing within a large store. Again, the signs of violence had been cleaned, but the sense of evil could never be completely erased. This store would fail. The building would go derelict.
    Khan reached again. Where and how far could the devil go in the short space of a single day? He sought the stain of another wrongful death and found it along a highway. Through Shadow he gathered himself to that spot.
    The body was still there. The spirit had crossed.
    Khan crouched low to examine the corpse. It had been a quick kill, more to incapacitate than to murder. Across the gut were four long, bloody gouges, like the swipe of a bear claw. The red stuff congealed across the belly. The ground beneath was stained red. A vehicle was parked askew, off the road. It was incongruous with its owner—the metal rusted and dinged, while the body of the man had the sheen of wealth. If Khan had to guess, the devil had preferred this man’s car and had stolen it from him.
    But to go where?
    Mountains rose in the far distance. A green sign just up the way read, WEST VIRGINIA TURNPIKE . And then Khan knew. Of course. Where else would it be headed? To whom would it be irresistibly drawn?
    Segue. And Layla, who’d set it free.
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    Layla sat on the bed, the blankets still drawn but now covered with chicken-scratch notes she’d jotted on a pad of Post-its she’d found in the bedside drawer. The sleek digital clock next to the bed said it was 1:12 a.m., but there was no way she could sleep. The ghost girl had made sleeping ever again unlikely, and Custo’s cryptic warning had settled it.
    She was in over her head. Khan had promised her answers, but with the depth of mystery that existed within Segue, answers could easily become a life’s work.
    But she couldn’t go back. How could she live with the knowledge that the bump in the night might just be real? That what she saw might be real? She’d be scared every minute. Going back to her apartment, marrying Ty, and having kids with all this in the back of her mind was impossible. She couldn’t even imagine that life now.
    She needed to be here. The place, the people, even the magic . . . she’d never be able to shake them. Where she fit in the scheme of things was now the driving question.
    The scattered Post-its noted each probable “fact” she’d accumulated. There was no order to her system, and she liked it that way. The happenstance disorganization of her notes allowed her to make unexpected connections that neat lines and categories would not allow. Right now, “mean girl ghost” overlapped with “superhot Khan.” Why did the ghost hate him so much? And north of that, “Talia,” whom Khan had said killed the wraiths’ maker. But hadn’t he also said back at the warehouse that he and he alone was responsible for the wraith disease? Didn’t make sense. She rearranged the notes. Put “Khan” next to “Custo.” Now there was a combo. Would Custo be able to read Khan’s mind? Something told her Custo had better not try.
    A soft knocking sound had Layla crumpling the note in her hand, her heart leaping. She held her breath. She didn’t think she could take any more today.
    The knock sounded again. Still soft. Tentative.
    Someone was at the door. A ghost wouldn’t bother to knock, a wraith would bust in, and Khan would simply step out of the shadows.
    Layla glanced at the clock. 1:23 a.m. The strange place obviously kept strange hours. She crawled off the bed, scattering notes on the floor, and tiptoed to the small living room of her Segue suite. All quiet. The one-bedroom apartment was lovely—fireplace, flat-screen TV, comfy couches in warm, welcoming tones. It had every possible comfort except peace of mind.
    She